Crown of Serpents

by Michael Karpovage

  “And a good morning to you too, Investigator Hart. Great to see you again. I must say you’re looking incredibly sharp.”

  Rae blinked, but in an instant composed herself and put on her investigator’s face. “Major, this isn’t a social call. I need to know where you were last night around ten.”

  “O-kay,” replied Jake, stepping back in the room and setting his bags down. He placed his beret on the dresser. “Come on in. You can still call me Jake, just like yesterday. Now would you like to tell me what this is all about?”

  Rae walked into the room but blocked the door open with her foot. She pulled a notepad and pen out of her back pocket. “Mr. Tununda, please answer the question if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes ma’am. Ten o’clock? I was at an old witch’s house on the Tonawanda Indian Reservation visiting with her and my uncle. That good enough?”

  “Their names?”

  “Joe Big Bear Tununda and Miss Lizzie Spiritwalker Canohocton,” said Jake, frowning.

  “Can these two individuals corroborate you were in fact there at that time?” Rae asked, writing down the names.

  “Ah, yes they most certainly can. In fact, other people at my uncle’s smoke shop saw me too. Now want to tell me what’s going on here, please?” Jake wondered how it was that this attractive woman could swing from being so inviting at her station yesterday to being so cold-hearted twenty-four hours later.

  “What were you wearing last night when you made your visit?”

  “Same clothes I have on now,” Jake replied, shaking his head. “Class A Dress Uniform. I had just come from an appointment. You didn’t answer my question.” He noticed she was checking out his hands.

  “Do you have an extra set of clothing in your suitcase?” she asked, taking notes, ignoring his demand.

  “Yes, one set of civilian clothes. Same ones I had on when I changed at your station. I brought two sets of clothes, my dress uniform and a civilian outfit of jeans and a shirt. I only planned on one night in Rochester. I’m headed back to Carlisle today. You want to rifle through my personal effects to see for yourself? Feel free.” He bent down to unzip his suitcase.

  “Won’t be necessary. Do you have any other coats?”

  “Yes ma’am, my black leather jacket. It’s out in my truck. Wanna see that?”

  “Won’t be necessary,” said Rae. “I saw it in there already through the window. Just confirming.”

  “Now how about you tell me what this is all about.”

  “Have you done any research on that Indian’s broach symbol you took a picture of yesterday?”

  Jake’s brows drew together. He raised his voice. “What the hell is going on here? You better start elaborating a little more or I’m not going to answer anything.”

  Rae looked up from her note pad and placed a hand on her hip near her sidearm. “Calm down. I’ll let you know after you answer the questions.”

  “No, I am not going to calm down,” he barked. “Why did you ask about the broach? What happened last night at ten? Why are you worried about what I was wearing? I’m not answering a damn thing until you show me some courtesy. And remove your goddamn hand from your weapon. That’s totally uncalled for.”

  To her surprise she complied with his last request, taking her hand away from the holster. She then deliberately took a more innocent approach, letting her good looks soothe his anger. She cocked her head slightly and stared directly into his eyes. It was a technique she had mastered on many occasions.

  “Jake, listen,” she said in a throaty voice. “Something serious happened last night at that the gravesite in the marsh. Someone got hurt really bad, okay? I’ve been up all night and this morning trying to establish motivation, and you seemed to have the most interest in the grave and that Indian’s broach yesterday. I’m here hoping to clear your name. I just have a few more questions and then I’ll explain everything, okay?”

  Jake took a breath. “Fine. Okay.”

  That was easy, she thought with an inward smile. “Now, have you found out anything significant about that broach? You said yesterday you wanted to look into it further. Does that symbol mean anything?”

  Jake gazed at her, not saying a word. Does it mean anything, he thought. She’s going to think I’m a nut job if I tell her what it means.

  “Ah, well, yes, I did find out a few things.”

  “And?”

  “Well, the symbol is from an ancient esoteric Indian cult that protects against something evil,” he said hesitantly.

  “Details please.”

  He sighed. This woman was relentless. He checked his watch. Guess he’d be skipping breakfast. Shifting his body weight he leaned against the wardrobe and faced away from her. He chose his words carefully.

  “Well, legend has it that the corpse in the grave was some type of guardian for a powerful relic that is hidden somewhere in that area of Seneca County. Apparently, this cult kept guard over the sacred lands of my people. It had ties to the white deer herd out there now trapped inside the Army depot. I really don’t know much more about it other than that. It seemed pretty farfetched to me.”

  Rae could tell he was holding back. “What was this powerful relic?

  “I guess it goes back to the beginnings of my people when they warred amongst themselves. I was told its powers could be used for good or evil but that it had been abused and was deliberately hidden, that’s all.”

  “Did these guardians have enemies who wanted to find it?”

  “Everyone has enemies,” Jake replied. “I suppose they might have been looking for it. I don’t really know to be honest.”

  “So, I’m interested to know,” said Rae, toying with him. “Would you like to get hold of this legendary relic? Make a historical discovery for your new job? Impress your peers? After all, it’s what you do for a living.”

  “You’re pretty good,” Jake lashed back, shaking his head at her provocation. He folded his arms across his chest, then leaned in and faced her in all seriousness. “No, Investigator Hart. I do not have an interest in finding this relic. Don’t play games with me. I don’t believe in hocus-pocus crap, okay? I know what you’re getting at. I left the reservation around ten-thirty last night. Checked into this hotel a little after eleven. Call the front desk. Call my uncle. Call the old witch for all I care. I was nowhere near that marsh!”

  “I already checked with the front desk. Eleven was about right. Another question I have for you is that you told me yesterday you had a lecture up here in Rochester at the 98th Division Headquarters, but you never showed. I called and they said you cancelled and rescheduled for this morning. Why did you cancel?”

  “Nice try again,” he remarked in a condescending tone to his voice. “My boss rescheduled the Rochester appointment right after I got on the Thruway. I did not. You want his name too? It’s Doctor Stephen Ashland. He’s in charge of the entire collection at MHI. Is that good enough yet?

  “Where did you go if your lecture was cancelled?”

  “I was at Old Fort Niagara and met with the executive director there. I drove from Seneca County all the way to Youngstown yesterday. Write that down in your little notepad. Her name is Marge Hibbard. She can verify that I was there on business. Hell, I even had a bite to eat in a local restaurant there. Want the freakin’ receipt as proof? I’ve got it in my wallet.”

  “Won’t be necessary,” said Rae.

  Jake wasn’t finished. “You want to tell me what the hell is going on now?”

  “Okay, fine! You’re all cleared,” she said holding up her hands to calm him down. “I believe you. I had to be thorough that’s all.” She let the door shut behind her and entered his room. Putting her notebook and pen in her back pocket, she leaned against the wall and started to tell him of the ordeal last night at the Indian gravesite.

  “An arsonist hit the gravesite about ten, poured accelerant all over and lit it up. There’s nothing left. It’s a total loss. The fire also spread to several trees downwind before the vol
unteers got in. They had a hell of a time putting it out — middle of the night, middle of the marsh.” She paused.

  Jake’s lips parted. He shook his head in disbelief.

  “But there was a fire official seriously injured,” Rae said quietly. “I know him well. Name’s Ed McMann. He’s the county emergency coordinator. The nicest guy you’ll ever meet. A tree collapsed on him. He has a severe head injury, multiple broken bones, and second degree burns. If it weren’t for his helmet and bunker gear he’d probably be dead. He’s still in the ICU at Geneva General.”

  “Good God,” said Jake. “I’m really sorry.”

  “We are pursuing this as an attempted murder case because when an emergency worker gets injured during arson the law states we can apply the charge.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Jake said slowly. “Who the hell would want to torch the—, I mean, how did— damn, and you thought I was a suspect? Attempted murder?”

  “You’re cleared. Okay? Can you help me now? Do you have any idea who would do something like this?”

  “No, it doesn’t make any sense,” he answered, running his hand through his short hair. “What about the actual hole? Was that damaged in any way?”

  “No, it was untouched. The plywood wasn’t even moved,” said Rae. “But no one’s getting in there ever again. The chief realized it was a safety hazard with all of his guys walking over it and replaced it with a heavy iron plate. Brought it in with the farmer’s four-wheel Gator. Then they covered it up with dirt and branches to hide it from curiosity seekers.”

  Jake was silent. There goes Uncle Joe’s chance to check for a cave.

  “The whole thing is just odd,” said Rae thinking out loud. “Why target the grave so drastically, what’s the motivation?”

  “That’s what I’m wondering too. Why destroy an Indian skeleton? Maybe it’s just based on pure hate? Oh, wait hold on. There was one firefighter named Owens — an overweight younger guy with a goatee — he got in my face about the Depot’s land being sold to, ah, an Indian. You might want to interview him? Hate motivates people to do stupid things.”

  “I think I remember him,” said Rae, retrieving her notepad and jotting down the lead.

  “He was on the rope team who hauled the body up. Ask the fire captain. He called him the jackass of the department.”

  “Nice memory. But get this, there was one big clue deliberately left behind that might explain the suspect’s intention. It was strategically placed upwind so it didn’t catch fire. Maybe you can help explain it. I kind of came here seeking your expertise too, ya know.” She raised an eyebrow.

  “What was it?”

  “A dead dog hanging from a tree. Had red spots painted all over it. Got any idea what it means?”

  Jake was floored. He knew the meaning. “How was it killed?”

  “Strangulation.”

  “What color fur did it have?”

  “White. It was a West Highland white terrier according to the breeder who reported it missing last night. Why?”

  He closed his eyes momentarily, trying to think how best to explain the meaning. “It’s an ancient Iroquois ritual of thanksgiving when you sacrifice or immolate a white-haired dog on a newly kindled fire. It was an offering for success in war or the battle yet to come. It required that the white dog be strangled to death so as not to ruin its perfection.”

  “What?” Hart retorted.

  Jake nodded. “It’s true. The ritual also required the dog be painted with red dots and decorated with many ribbons, feathers, and wampum. And that a pouch of tobacco be burnt along with it. Were there any decorations on it? Any evidence of tobacco?” he asked with a frown.

  “No,” she answered in a confused look. “Nothing like that. I scoured the whole area. Found a multitude of good evidence.” She ticked off her fingers as she named them. “A gas can to carry the fuel in, ripped fabric from clothing, remnants of a latex glove, a lighter, and a spray can complete with a red cap. The arsonist made sure there were no fingerprints but just didn’t give a shit about leaving it all behind.”

  “Seems like an amateur to leave it all behind,” speculated Jake.

  “Yeah, but they took the care to wear latex gloves. That’s not an amateur,” countered Rae. “It’s this dog message that just doesn’t make sense to me. You’re saying whoever did this was giving thanks? For what, finding that damn grave? For Derrick Blaylock’s death?”

  “No, not in that sense,” explained Jake. “Not since they destroyed the grave. I’m thinking maybe the message means the arsonist was looking for success in a future battle to come. Maybe sending a warning?” Jake shrugged his shoulders in confusion. “But whoever did this must have been Indian. Couldn’t have been that volunteer, well, although he could have done it, not impossible. But you see only Indians can perform the ritual.” Was it Nero? Jake thought to himself. “Obviously they knew how to do it, but they kind of screwed it all up.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, the dog wasn’t decorated properly, no tobacco burned off, and you said the dog itself wasn’t destroyed in the fire as is required,” he explained. “An amateur had to do this.”

  “Listen, when you were down in that hole, did you see anything unusual?” asked Rae. “Anything significant that would explain why the guardian’s grave was located there? That would maybe give some motivation for this arson?”

  “Nothing. It was just an empty, blood and shit-filled pit. Let me ask you this. Did anyone else besides you and I see that silver broach with the symbol on it?”

  “Ah, actually yes, quite a few people did that day,” nodded Rae. “After you left the station, a News10Now reporter stopped by and I let her photograph the broach for her story. I was returning a favor for some pressure she put on a murder suspect last month. She helped me close that case successfully. So you know, I scratch the media’s back as much as I hate them, they scratch mine.”

  “Hmm—” hummed Jake, thinking. “With the story out and the broach publicized then the arsonist could have been a local or a juvenile or hell, anyone for that matter. But I think very few people actually know what that broach symbol means or what it leads to anyway, if that is the reason why they acted. I mean, I just found out about the legend with the relic last night when I was on the reservation. I showed the picture you let me take to my uncle and a very old clan mother and they gave me the story I just relayed to you.”

  “Yeah,” Rae replied in a tone that implied she was wrapping up the conversation. “But it’s someone who takes Indian symbology seriously though, because of the dog message.”

  “Yep,” Jake said. “One thing is for sure though—”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, they may be amateurs, Indian or not, but they’re also willing to take extreme measures to get their message across right away. Just be very careful what you dig into, Rae.”

  “Whoever did this is going to be one sorry S.O.B. once I finish with them.”

  Jake nodded and looked at his watch. “Listen, I’ve really got to check out and get over to the 98th. I can’t miss my appointment. If you have any more questions or want to bounce an idea off of me, feel free. You have my contact info.” He shouldered his bags.

  Rae moved towards the door. Jake followed her into the hallway. “Will do,” she said. “And thanks for cooperating. I can come on pretty strong sometimes.” She smiled reluctantly and turned toward the exit. “You have a good day and a safe drive home.”

  “Okay, see you later,” said Jake, edging in the opposite direction toward the lobby, but not before admiring her as she walked away. Then he yelled out, “Hey investigator! There’s something I need to ask you.”

  Rae pulled a 180 and headed back in his direction, looking serious. She walked up to him, her hands on her hips.

  “I was actually thinking that, umm, even though we’ve had a rough start I’m still serious about dinner with you sometime?”

  A hesitant smile appeared on Rae’s face. She said nothing.r />
  “How about tonight? I was going to head back to Pennsylvania but I can stop in at Kendaia to pick you up or meet you somewhere?”

  “You certainly are a persistent and bold man.” She paused. “Tell you what. Give me a shout on my cell. I have some more business up here in Rochester first and I don’t know how long I’ll be held up. That’s all I can promise.”

  “Sounds great. Expect a call.”

  Rae spun around, and walked off.

  Same time. High Point Casino and Resort.

  “Couldn’t pull the recon off,” mumbled Ray The Mouth Kantiio on the phone line from his Seneca Sunset Motel room.

  “Why wasn’t I informed earlier?” demanded Alex Nero of his top field operative. He gritted his teeth. Kantiio had been slacking in his performance as of late and was skating on thin ice, even before taking care of the pit boss the other night. He had let his physique go and had developed a problem with staying awake. Not good signs for the role he played in the organization. “This was very important.”

  “I know. I know,” said Kantiio. “I was tired. I drove nonstop to get there but the place was crawling with cops and fire trucks. They had the road blocked off. Besides, the swamp was on fire.”

  “What? On fire? Who did this?”

  “Got me. Newspaper said it was suspicious and they’re investigating. They always say that shit. I drove by there again this morning but still couldn’t get in.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Whaddya want me to do now?”

  “I’m sending you down to Pennsylvania today. I want your sticky fingers on an old Revolutionary War rifle. There’s something hidden inside of it somewhere. Do not tamper with it, just get it and bring it back here to me. Do not screw this one up,” said Nero. “You’ve been warned.”

  “I understand. Tell me where it’s located.”

  15

  Late Tuesday morning. U.S. Army Reserve 98th Division HQ, Rochester, N.Y.

  JUST A FIVE-MINUTE drive down Route 104 east from the Holiday Inn Express, Jake veered his Tahoe off the exit ramp and turned south on Goodman Street into a residential area. On his right, not a block away, was the entrance to the U.S. Army Reserve 98th Division Headquarters.